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Wednesday, 25 September 2013

The Volunteer

**Author's Note: Apologies in advance for use of foul language. I also realised this ended up not exactly working with the prompt - but I thought it was more appropriate for her to be a volunteer than a servant. Anyway, as always, thanks for reading. **--

An unnatural digital shrieking jolted her from sleep. A
siren, an alarm - it took several moments for Clary to recognise the ringing of the new household phone. She squinted in the uncomfortable darkness, seeking the hum of
the radio clock beside her.4:07. Who could be calling at this hour?

Her
mum rasped into the phone, her cigarette stained voice even croakier than usual
in these brutal hours reserved for sleep.

'H-hello?'

Silence.
Clary pulled the pillow over her face, to snatch at the fervent tails of
slumber but her curiosity ran too deep. Her ears were already straining to
catch the snippets of words, an intake of breath, anything to tell her who
could be on the other end of the line.

Nothing.
Not even the usual wheezing of her mum’s chronic cough. Not a sigh nor a moan.
Whoever was on the other line, whatever news they had to deliver, had rendered
her mum silent and lifeless.

After a lengthy stillness, Clary heard the light click of
the phone returning to its plastic cradle.

And then the onslaught began.

“Fucking asshole, cunt. Fucking lifeless useless motherfucker. I spit on his fucking grave.” A loud hacking and the wet slap of
spittle as it hit the floor.

Clary pulled on the pillow tighter, creating a cocoon
around her ears. There was no drowning out of her mother’s cries, the crassness
of her words. They were a muffled drumming against her skull, thick and
persistent, demanding to be acknowledged in her mind.

The tears were already forming in the deep junctures of her
eyes.

The door to her bedroom slammed open and her mother blew in,
upturning her momentary safe haven with brutal force.

“Get up, you useless cunt. Get up.”

Clary didn’t move a muscle, shut her eyes tight, hoping
against hope that in feigning sleep, she might be spared. Of course, her unresponsiveness only angered her mother further and she felt the sharp sting across the back of her legs from her mother’s blow.

“Get up, you lazy no good selfish bitch. Sleeping like the waste
of space you are. You better wake up.”

“Ma, I have to work in the morning,” Clary pleaded as the pillow
was torn from around her eyes. Her mum had thrown on the lights, so that the
harsh white fluorescent glare burned against her sensitive retina and she threw am arm
against her brow as a shield.

“Working. You think you’re so goddamn important because you
fucking work.” The pillow hit the side of the headboard and Clary felt clawing
on her arms. “You think you’re so much better than me because you're getting a fucking
education. A fucking job. Fine. If you want to stay here, you’re going to pay me some motherfucking rent. Fucking $200 a week. That will show you how much your fucking job is
worth to me.”

There was no use mentioning that her 'work' was actually
volunteering, that she wasn’t paid a dime. That it was all supposed to help her
get into uni. Her mother’s tainted mind was running, drawing collusive parallels
and conspiratorial tangents in her discountenance. There was no use pointing
out the missed strands of logic or common sense; the urgency to judge just
had to pass.

Her mother’s rant went on, a scathing recap of the world’s
tyranny against her. How Clary was front and centre in her never-ending list of
misgivings. Clary’s eyes clouded over, letting her mother’s caustic words wash
over her, so that they did nothing more than brush a coat of dull veneer over her hardened mind.

After the tirade was over, her mother, still furious but
having worn herself out, stood up to leave. Clary let out a silent
sigh of relief, calculating the precious minutes of rest she could still
salvage. But as her mother hovered by the door, she left her daughter with one last prick, one final jab that was meant to draw blood. This assault, even the weather-beaten Clary was not prepared for.

“That no good nick father
of yours, he’s fucking dead. Gone and offed himself. Fucking prick.”

She left the room in silence.

And after a long terse moment, Clary howled.

--

The next morning, Clary staggered into the kitchen, her eyes
red-rimmed and bloodshot. Her mum was up and muttering, wrapped in her robe, already on
her third cigarette of the day. Clary said nothing, just manoeuvred past on
the way to the fridge.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” her mother sneered, taking
in her daughter’s sullen state. “Wasted fucking tears on that asshole. Do you
know what he's done to me? What he's done to us?”

Clary bit her tongue as she retrieved a carton of juice, watching it splash into her
glass. Swallowing a fresh sob bubbling upwards, she sculled her drink in just two gulps. She welcome the cool, sweet liquid that slid down her throat.

A swipe of her mouth with the back of her hand and a quick rinse of the
glass later, Clary gathered her canvas bag and headed for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” her mother demanded.

“I’m going to work,”
she snarled, slamming the flyscreen shut. Her vision blurred and her
sobs came freely, drowning out her mother’s cussing behind her.

--

The volunteer centre was already bustling when Clary arrived
to check in at the Red Cross disaster zone. She’d walked most of the two miles here, trying to
extinguish the last of the crying. She ducked into a petrol station
bathroom to splash cool water on her face. Peering at her reflection in the cracked
mirror, she saw that her nose was rubbed red and her eyes were still bloodshot.
But her cheeks were no longer puffy and the flood of tears had dried, for now. Given
it was the height of the pollen season and all the vehicles were covered in a thick yellow film, Clary figured that she would pass for suffering acute
allergies.

“Name?” The bored orderly asked without glancing up from her
clipboard.

“Clarissa Stevenson.” Clary managed a small, polite smile.

The orderly checked the list and marked her name, waving her
over to a far table. “You’re on the phones. But don’t expect much. Most of the
temporary homes have already been assigned. Just a straggler or two left.” She
dismissed Clary with a grunt and a shrug.

Clary settled into her station, tossing her bag to the
floor. Glancing at the giant white board that listed the housing assignments made
today, she saw that the orderly was right - it was pretty empty. Two weeks ago,
when the floods had been at their peak, those boards had been filled with lines
and numbers, each representing a displaced family that had lost their home to
the rising waters. Clary had spoken to a number of them, mothers sobbing as
they gave their babies dates-of-birth, fathers angry and bellowing when they
realised that they were on the waitlist for another day. Clary had smiled and
gritted her teeth through all of it, following the script as best she
could, lending the sympathetic ear when it was needed and doing her best to
give the firm but professional denial that the Head of Staff had belaboured on
them.

But today, today there was none of that. The boards were
empty, the last of the waitlist had been more or less been assigned. They were
now more likely to turn away attention seekers and profiteers, the ones trying
to use disaster resources to their own advantage. There were no more woeful
stories to be listened to, at least none that were being called in.

As the hours ticked by, Clary felt herself sinking into numb
complacency. She fiddled with her phone, did some practice questions for her
HSCs to pass the time. The sense of boredom seeped into her bones but she
refused to let her mind wander. The sleep deprivation crept up, so that she had
to brace her arms against her chin to keep from collapsing on the table.

The orderly came into the room, surveying the rag-tag team
that were drumming their fingers and lolling in their seats. “Who wants a job?”
she barked.

Clary was the first to leap up, the only one actually. A few
of the older volunteers sniggered behind their hands but she ignored their
ribbing. “I’m free.”

The orderly grunted and motioned for Clary to follow. She
led her past the canteen and a few empty offices to a back room, undoing the lock
with a key from around her neck. It was the sharp pungent fragrance that hit
her first, clawing at her nose hairs, dissolving into her sinuses. Clary sneezed
once and the orderly smirked as she yanked on the cord that lit up the room.

Clary let out a gasp.

Standing on every table, covering every shelf and visible
surface, scattered across the entire floor were buckets upon buckets of
flowers. Clary’s jaw dropped. She recognised some of them the more common
names: gerberas, carnations, even a cluster of sunflowers tucked into a tall
standing vase in the centre of the room. Some of the other blossoms, they were equally bright and colourful, but she had no idea what they were. There
were a few wisps of baby’s breath and number of large fern leaves, possibly
even some wildflowers and weeds. Clary turned to the orderly in wonder.

“A donation,” she declared with yet another shrug. “The
Friends of the Gardens society thought that a truckload of flowers was just
what we needed for the disaster.” The orderly snorted and shook her head. “I
tried to turn them away, but the Head of the Red Cross, he thought the centre
could use a little bit of cheer. You have allergies?” she asked with a quirk of
an eyebrow.

Clary, too stunned to speak, simply shook her head.

The orderly smacked her lips in approval. “Anyway, your job is to get these distributed. Spread
good cheer.” Her fingers hooked the air as she uttered the words. “I don’t care
how you do it, where you put them, who you give them to, just get them out of
here.”

And she left Clary standing at the door, gaping at the insurmountable task.

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, her dormant mind clicked into
gear and she went to work. Clary found bits of string to tie haphazard bouquets
together, clawing into the recesses of her mind for what her art teacher had once told her about colour matching. She found dirty glasses in the kitchen, and when
those were tapped, she retrieved stale milk bottles and soda cans out of the recycling
bins. Clary jammed every vessel, every bottle, basin and receptacle she could
find chock full of flowers.

These she then distributed throughout the centre. She gave
them to the volunteers sitting bored at the call centre and she lined them up
along the window sills. She took them into the administrative offices and gave
little homemade boutonnieres to the janitors and cleaning crew on duty. The
kitchen staff guffawed when she asked if she could use the slop buckets and
then gawped when she returned them, brimming with blossoms. Each and every one of
the staff looked genuinely surprised and touched by her offers, and soon, you couldn't find a single corner of the centre that hadn’t been dressed with Clary's good cheer.

And Clary had to admit, the work made her feel better.

As the day's sun stretched its fingertips across the sky for a final
time, Clary gathered up the last of the stalks and stems strewn
about the now empty room. There was a gentle knock and Clary glanced towards the open
door.

She recognised him instantly, the Head of Staff of the Red Cross.
He was soft-spoken and gentle, but still commanded a definite presence. Clary
had noticed the gossip and cackling of the other staff noticeably die down
whenever he entered the room.

“Clarissa?” he asked gently. Clary blushed, she had no idea
that he knew her name.

“Clary,” she choked out. “Everyone calls me Clary.”

His smile brightened. “Clary, the staff have been talking a
lot about you today. What a bright ray of sunshine you’ve been, so to speak.”

Clary felt her blush deepening. “I was just doing my job,”
she mumbled, looking down at her shoes.

“Well, you’ve been doing it with a big smile and lots of energy.
Everyone’s been raving about your cheerful demeanour and generous warmth.”
Clary squirmed. “So on behalf of the Red Cross, I just wanted to thank you for all
your hard work and service. We are incredibly honoured.”

Once again, Clary found herself at a loss for words.

“Well, let me know if you ever need a letter of recommendation for
your work.” The man smiled and left her, standing knee deep in garden waste, as her strangled
tears returned.